


Stars, Hide Your Fires

by Tyranno



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Character Study, KWP (Kissing Without Plot), M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 14:20:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7687792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a deserted battlefield, two men meet for what might be the last time, and for an evening, they are more than just old friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars, Hide Your Fires

**Author's Note:**

> This was so hard to write a summary for... but it's the first thing I've finished in ages so im real proud of it.

Jingim lay in the dark and listened. 

It was hard to hear over the tense pounding of his heart and the thick murmuring of the forest hid it at first—but there, not far off, was the unmistakable sound of hooves. 

Jingim shuffled back, stomach twinging sharply. He'd tried to keep some blood off the path, but he was hardly in a state where he could check. He lay awkwardly, face pressed into the grass, the rich smell of the earth filling his nostrils. The hoof beats grew louder. He hardly dared to breathe. 

The horse stopped. Jingim opened his eyes, but he didn't need to see to know how close it was. He could smell it. He felt like cursing but instead he gripped his knife closer. He would have one chance to act, and a slim one at best. 

The man dismounted, and came closer. With the late afternoon sun behind him, his face was dark with shadows, hair glowing like flames. 

The man came closer. He was unarmed—a stroke of luck Jingim had not anticipated. Perhaps he would survive this after all. Just a little closer and—

“Prince Jingim?” The man said. His voice was low and with an odd rumble to it that was unmistakable. 

“Marco?” Jingim sighed, relief flooding through him. He relaxed, and the pain in his abdomen lessened slightly. He took a few deep breaths, smiling up at his old friend. 

“You're hurt,” Marco said. He bent over him, working an arm under his shoulders and lifting him up so he could inspect the wound in the light. 

Jingim nodded weakly. “One of Prester John's men,” he lent his head on Marco's shoulder, “I thought you had already left?” 

Marco shook his head sadly, tugging bandages and medical supplies from his pouch. “This will hurt,” Marco said quietly, before dousing the wound in alcohol. Jingim hissed and watched him quickly bandage the wound with a practiced ease. 

“Why did you go?” Jingim muttered. Perhaps if he were in his right mind he wouldn't have asked, but he had wondered many times. The number of people he could safely call his friends was dwindling, ranks split by treachery and blood. 

Marco said nothing, sighing through his nose. He tied off the bandages and took Jingim into his arms, keeping him close as he scanned the horizons carefully. He listened to the forest and heard nothing. It did not ease him, but he kept moving, settling Jingim on the saddle and sitting behind him, pulling the Prince close to his chest. 

Jingim settled back into Marco's arms, feeling safe for the first time in weeks. He didn't wonder how Marco had found him. The Latin was like that, lucky in a way no-one else was, forever in the right place at the right time. 

“There's a cave not far from here,” Marco said, voice barely above a whisper, “Prester John's men do not know the landscape. They will not find it.” 

Jingim nodded weakly. 

Marco kicked the horse and it began to canter, bouncing under them. To Jingim's ears the horse's hooves were deafening, marking them out as easily as a barrel of black powder going off, but he forced himself to settle. There was no-one around for miles, and it felt like hours since the battle. Pastor John's men were ruthless and devastatingly effective—but they were always quick. If he had survived then that was enough. 

Marco pulled him closer, an arm under his ribs. The pale grey side of the mountain loomed between the trees, and he tugged his horse to slow her, hooves barely sounding on the soft grass. Marco carefully lead her through the edge of the forest, down the sloping hills. A cave suddenly appeared, hidden by the landscape, and Marco dismounted, cradling Jingim in his arms. 

He set the Prince down on the cold, hard stone and began to build a fire from the old wood that littered the cave's mouth. 

“Was it your religion?” Jingim asked. “Could you not stand to go against it?” 

“These men—… they are not my religion,” Marco's eyes darkened, “This is not a just war. It is borne of fear and greed. Christians need not fear the Khan.” 

Jingim pushed himself up, so he could sit straighter, and watched Marco light the fire. In the strikes of flint, in the burst of embers, Marco's face was illuminated perfectly for an instance. The hard lines of his face, the purpling shadows under his eyes. The lines of his brow, the scruff of stubble on his jaw, grizzled like a dog's. A few years at the Khan's side had turned him from a boy to an old man. 

“What was it, then?” Jingim asked.

The embers caught. Fire bloomed in the cave, sudden and vibrant. In the firelight, Marco's hair glowed like molten gold. He offered Jingim a humourless smile. 

“It was too much,” Marco said, tiredly. 

“What was?”

“Everything.” Marco loosed his supplies from the pouch on his horse, digging through the bags. He pulled some bundles of food and unwrapped one, passing some salted meats to Jingim. “The Khanate is rife with secrets, and I have not managed to pass unscathed.” He popped a few slithers of meat in his mouth and chewed, thoughtfully. Warmth gradually soaked back into his fingers. “Surviving the Khanate is like trying to keep afloat in a lake. Every secret is like a lead weight on my feet.” 

“Do they not have secrets in Venice?” Jingim asked. 

“I do not know the Italian king,” His voice was low, but calm, “I am not responsible for hundreds of his men.” Marco's eyes locked onto his. Jingim couldn't read his face. When the venetian had first come to the court of Kublai Khan he had been embarrassingly open. Every emotion had run wild across his features, every thought telegraphed by his stance and the look in his eyes. 

In the days leading up to his leaving, Jingim had found he had frequently been unable to read him at all. Marco's face had become like marble, permanently blank, an odd sort of sadness hanging around his features. 

“Perhaps a better question would be: why didn't you leave earlier?” Jingim asked. 

Marco tore another mouthful of his salted meat. “I am not sure. What is it your father says? _Nesting birds and well-fed dogs always return to the walls of their master_. Your father earned my loyalty, so I was loyal.” 

“Was?” Jingim asked. 

Marco watched Jingim, through the dancing of the flames. The golden Prince, who he had once thought cold and aloof, was the warmest man he knew. He was stronger than Marco, in every sense of the word. Marco tossed a few more sticks on the fire. Outside, dusk was bleeding into the forest, staining the trees orange and gold. 

“I will miss you,” Jingim said. 

Marco smiled, and there was genuine warmth in his eyes, for the first time all evening. “And I'll miss you, Prince.” 

Jingim eased himself into a more comfortable position, slouched against the cave wall, staring up through the fire to the face of his old friend. “Come a little closer.” 

Marco shuffled around the fire's edge to rest at his side, their shoulders touching. The firelight made him more handsome, exaggerating the sharp cut of his jaw, the crisp golden curls of his hair. This close, his shadowed eyes were brilliant, green like the depths of the deep water, blue like summer when there is no clouds, only sky. 

“You will always be welcome in my Khanate, Marco,” Jingim said, tiredly.

Marco smiled, “Thank you, my Prince.” 

“I am not your Prince anymore,” Jingim rested his head on his friend's shoulder, smelling his scent, feeling the solid warmth of his presence. 

Marco drew closer, pressing his nose into the Prince's mane of black hair. “Thank you, Jingim.” 

Jingim pressed his hand into Marco's, watching their fingers interlace. Marco, more than anyone, had been close these last few years. It was Marco who mourned with him over Kokachin's death. It was Marco who drunk with him night after night, it was Marco who understood her absence was still felt just as powerfully after he returned to his duties, that a hole was still gaping in his heart even though he was not allowed to show it. It was Marco who had helped him raise his children, who chose a nursemaid and bought them presents from his patrols along the silk road. It was Marco who sat with him and his children and told them tales of Venice so vivid and clear Jingim could see city when he closed his eyes, he dreamed of crisp white buildings and dark canals. 

Jingim looked up at him, “Forgive me, Marco, I must tell you one more secret.” 

Marco glanced at him. 

Jingim lifted a hand to rest on the side of Marco's jaw. Stubble prickled his hand but the skin was soft. Marco's hand touched Jingim's, but he didn't pull it off. He barely touched him at all. Marco's eyes were wide and curious, flicking across Jingim's face. 

Jingim kissed him. 

It was soft and gentle, with a warmth that loosened the tight knot of worry in Jingim's chest. Marco tilted his head slightly, one hand winding into Jingim's hair. 

Jingim broke away, searching Marco's face for something. 

Marco smiled at him. His face was luminous and expression warm, and for a moment he looked his age, still young and boyish. His bright eyes watched him carefully. 

“It was you,” Marco whispered. 

“Me?” 

Marco buried his hand in Jingim's hair, cradling the curve of his skull. His smile broke into a grin as he leant his forehead against Jingim's. “ _Well_... you, Byamba, Sifu, Kokachin… the reasons I kept coming back,” Marco brought his other hand to rest in the other side of his hair, “and now...” 

“Now?” Jingim asked. 

“Byamba and Sifu have long since left. Kokachin...” Marco swallowed thickly, “...rests in the blue sky.”

“I am still here,” Jingim said, quietly. 

Marco kissed him. His touch was gentle but his kiss was deep, his mouth was hot. Each kiss was like a brand. 

“You were the reason I left, too,” Marco murmured against the Prince's lips. 

“You knew...” Jingim breathed. 

Marco kissed him again. His eyes still glowed with warmth, but the familiar sadness lurked in the shadows of his eyes. “I only knew because I share the same… proclivities,” Marco smiled, kissing him softly, “Why do you think I could leave Venice so easily? I was building up something of a bad reputation.” 

Jingim smiled back. His stomach wound bled sluggishly, and part of him cursed the fatigue dragging at his consciousness. He wished this had happened at a different time, earlier. He wished he was rested and well, so they could kiss and touch and fuck as they pleased, all night. He wished he could give up the title of Prince without the world crumbling around him, only for a little while, to ride along trade routes by Marco's side, to talk to him for hours and to have him whenever he wanted and wherever. 

Marco watched him. 

Jingim cupped Marco's face and drew back to study every inch of the Latin, to commit it to memory. The sharp incline of his scruffy jaw, the slope of his pale shoulders. His travel-weathered cheeks and his curling hair that looked like dark sheep's wool but felt soft like downy feathers. In the firelight, Marco's eyes shone inhumanely blue. 

“Come back,” Jingim said, quietly, “after a few years. Whenever you want to, whenever you can. Come back to me.”

Marco smiled into the curve of Jingim's mouth. “Of course.” 

In the morning he would leave his knife with Jingim and ride west to the outpost there and alert them to the Prince's position, but that was not for hours yet. 

Beyond the mouth of the cave, a moonless night had fallen over the valley and all the world was a single, unbroken shade of black. Darkness had crept close, and Marco could hardly see his horse's pale flanks a few paces away, let alone the line of trees at the edge of the forest. Luckily, by the dying embers of the fire, he could see his Prince picked out in golds and oranges. Not that he'd need to, he thought, as he rand his hands gently along Jingim's ribs. He could feel him just fine. 

Marco lent ever closer, their warm breath mingling in the cool of the cave. He kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.


End file.
